


The Wolf in the Man

by fojee



Series: Tip the Scales [1]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/M, Feral!Derek, M/M, Pre-Slash, Surprise Pairing, hurt-comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-27
Updated: 2012-05-27
Packaged: 2017-11-06 03:08:33
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/414038
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fojee/pseuds/fojee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He remembers nothing before the screeching metal, and the sharp pain burning itself through him. </p>
<p>A story in which Derek growls, Stiles worries, Scott scratches his head and Jackson sulks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Wolf in the Man

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Pack Loyalties](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/8770) by Eoen. 



> More like idea shamelessly stolen from. :P "Pack Loyalties" is an old Logan/Remy fic that I have reread a hundred times.
> 
> I apologize for the lack of Lydia. I didn’t know what to do with her, so in this fic, she’s still in a coma. This is set shortly after the end of season one.
> 
> No smut. Sorry. Also, a surprise pairing of sorts.

The Wolf in the Man

by Fojee

 

He remembers nothing before the screeching metal, and the sharp pain burning itself through him. He wakes up amidst the wreckage. He is upside down, and his head is pounding but he shakes it off. He wrenches free of his restraints and falls, whining a little. Under the blood and gasoline, he scents himself, and very faintly, someone else. He pushes his way out, though he scrapes his skin on the sharp edges. He hears loud noises. Someone by the road is shouting down, standing in front of another metal beast. He narrows his eyes. And when the man steps closer, he runs.

***

Stiles first hears about it from his dad over breakfast. "Oh, by the way, Derek Hale got in a car accident late last night."

Stiles drops his fork mid-bite. "What? Derek Hale? Definitely-not-a-serial-killer Derek Hale?" His dad eyes him strangely, but Stiles ignores it in favor of more important things. "Is he okay?"

"That's just it. His car's completely wrecked. Wrapped around a tree and everything. He shouldn't have survived at all. But the guy in the other car said he just stood up, bleeding like crazy, and ran into the woods." He shakes his head. "Isn't that the damnedest thing?"

Stiles laughs weakly. "Yeah, that Derek Hale. Such a crazy guy." And he is thinking, _oh shit, shit, shit._

***

He drags Scott to a quiet corner just before first period. It's Friday and they're in English together and Stiles can always talk them out of trouble if they're late. "Derek's hurt." Scott does that furrowed-brow thing, so he explains it further. "He got in a car accident but he ran off instead of doing the normal _human_ thing like going to a hospital. We need to find him."

"But he'll probably heal up on his own," Scott argues. "I have a date with Allison tonight, man. I can't not go. She'll kill me. Or her dad will do it for her."

Stiles wants to tear off his hair, but it's too short for him to grip properly. He thinks about talking to Jackson.

He doesn't.

Stiles drives by the accident after school. Yellow tape cordons off the area, and there are some guys in a tow truck who look to be figuring out the logistics of getting Derek's car out of there. The car itself is upside down, and one side is smashed completely flat against the trunk of a tree. The windshield is shattered, and even from a distance, he can see the blood around the edges. The forest floor is dark with it, or maybe that's just his morbid imagination. He clenches his hands on the steering wheel and drives on.

When he arrives at Derek's house, the place is empty, even though he shouts and shouts. His voice echoes a little. Not for the first time, he shakes his head at the state of the place. Derek is keeping a room on the second floor, but it looks untouched. Everything else is just as burnt and falling apart as always. There are even puddles of water from where half the roof is gone.

He steps out the door and worries his nails with his teeth, and rethinks about talking to Jackson. Okay, so the guy has become an even bigger douche since Derek was stupid enough to bite him. He keeps slamming Stiles against the lockers a little harder than normal, bares his teeth more, and pretty much rules the field in lacrosse. But Derek's still his alpha, so he must care, right?

He leaves deep in thought, and does not notice that he is being watched.

Glowing red eyes follow the boy. Later, he prowls around the old den and recognizes the boy's scent. Is he pack? There are other scents, both old and new. His head still throbs, and he growls at the scent of blood, fire, and hunters' weapons. The den is not safe. He goes back to woods to look for a new place.

***

Maybe it's a cliché, but Allison and Scott are parked on an empty lot at the edge of the forest for a bit of light petting. Even though it's Friday, Allison has a curfew, which her father enforces with a gun, so they're just kissing and cuddling while she keeps an eye on the clock glowing on her dash.

Scott nuzzles her neck when he hears it. A low growl vibrating through him like he is a tuning fork somebody just struck. He feels the instinct rising within him and he throws himself back from Allison before his teeth turn to fangs.

"What the—?" Allison manages to say, bewildered, before Scott wrenches the door open and scrambles out. He's on his knees on the concrete, trying to keep himself under control, when Derek fucking Hale walks out from between the trees and growls at him. His eyes are red and he looks like Scott feels, but he's not in full Alpha mode.

Allison is already out the car, heading towards Scott when Derek surges in her direction. He swipes at her with one clawed hand, and she almost trips on her feet dodging it.

Scott is suddenly there, pushing Derek back. "What the fuck is your problem?"

But Derek just snarls at him, grabbing him by an arm and dragging him away from Allison.

Scott shifts completely, and they tussle for a few minutes, until Allison nails Derek's left shoulder with an arrow. One condition of being allowed to date Scott is that she never leaves home without a weapon.

Derek rears back, pulls the arrow out, and Allison notches a second arrow and aims for his chest, but he just glares at her disapprovingly before running off.

"Oh my God, Scott, are you okay?" He's back to human but looks winded, lying on the ground, so she pats at his face, checking for injuries. He waves her off with a half-hearted smile. It soon fades.

"He didn't shift back," he suddenly speaks on the mostly-silent ride home, and Allison almost jumps, her hands too tight on the wheel. "He told me that pain brings a werewolf back to his human form, but it's like he's forgotten how to be human."

"Maybe he has," Allison says. "You know, like some animals go feral? I can ask my dad about it."

***

"That's a horrible idea," Stiles announces, throwing up his hands. Scott's Internet connection is slow, so onscreen, Stiles looks like he's making some sort of ancient dance move. "You know what they do to feral animals? They put them down, Scott."

"Yes, I actually work for a vet, Stiles, so I know," Scott says but Stiles just steamrolls over him.

"Why couldn't you tell your girlfriend no? Look, if they're bringing out the big guns, we have to stall them somehow. And we have to find him first, so I need you to talk to Jackson."

"What? Why me?"

Stiles covers his face with his hands for so long that Scott thinks his computer is frozen. "Because, dumbass, he's more likely to listen to someone higher in the pack than he is than to someone like me."

Ever since Jackson got bit, he and Scott have been circling each other. They play well enough together on the field, or on one of Derek's training sessions, but as soon as it's over, they are back to being two dogs pissing all over the same territory. Technically Scott could pull rank, but Jackson actually _wanted_ to get bit and turned, and he's really intense about training, like he is about everything that could make him even more perfect than he could possibly get.

And Derek just leaves them to it. _They'll figure it out_ , he told Stiles when he last brought it up. _Don't interfere in pack politics_. Like Stiles needed any more reminders that he's not part of the team.

Scott sits back on his squeaky chair. "Derek's not _that_ far gone, I think. Even when he had me pinned, he didn't go for my throat. If anything, it felt like he was trying to protect me. From Allison."

"Great! So she's in even more danger, which pushes Mr. Argent's berserker button. Look, just text Jackson, okay? If Derek went after you, maybe it's because he recognizes you as pack. That means he might come after Jackson, too."

After Scott signs off, Stiles formulates a plan. It's not his best one.

***

The plan is outright begging. Mr. Argent is cleaning out his gun in the living room even though it's only early afternoon, and Stiles darts a look here and there as if searching for escape routes. Allison is sitting on the arm of the couch, a little petulant, while Stiles fidgets on the opposite armchair.

He clears his throat to begin. "Scott said Derek wasn't really _trying_ to hurt them."

Allison pipes up helpfully, "Yeah, dad. He could have killed us both, but he didn't. I mean, even after I shot him, he just ran away."

Mr. Argent's jaw clenches and his eyes turn into glaciers, like that isn't exactly what he wants to hear.

Stiles grimaces and barely stops himself from shooing Allison out of the room. So he hurriedly adds, "It's only like his normal inhibitions are down, but he's still Derek, you know? So he's only showing his uh, his _disapproval_ of Scott and Allison's relationship. Sort of like you, sir."

Allison glares at Stiles. But Mr. Argent's mouth twitches a bit and he seems to loosen up.

Bolstered by that, Stiles continues, "We just need some time. We can get him in and figure out how to fix him." His mind is scrabbling desperately for anything else to say, when Mr. Argent interrupts.

"I'll give you twenty-four hours." Stiles perks up. "But if Hale hurts anyone else before then, the deal's off, is that clear?"

The boy nods like a bobble-head doll vigorously shaken. "Crystal clear, sir."

After Allison walks out in a huff back to her room—she's not allowed to see Scott until this whole thing is resolved—and Stiles leaves to meet Scott and Jackson, Mr. Argent reassembles the guns on the table and puts them back where they can be accessed easily.

The boy impressed him and he thinks Stiles would have made a good, solid hunter. If only he hadn't already chosen a side.

***

They meet at the bluff. Jackson's in his Porsche, and Stiles and Scott shares a ride. Stiles doesn't know what Scott said to make Jackson come, and he doesn't want to know.

He nods at Jackson, who bares his teeth at him. _Another douchebag move by Team Captain Whittemore!_ Stiles doesn't react and lays out the plan. It pretty much involves howling.

"That's the stupidest, fucking—," Jackson starts to say, when a growl interrupts him.

It's Scott and he's already in furry mode, eyes glowing yellow.

Jackson wolves out, too, maybe out of fear, or maybe in instinctive reaction. Somewhere in the multi-colored light show that is Stiles' brain, he notes that down: future experiment to try. The rest of him holds his breath just until he's sure they're not gonna turn to him and rip him to shreds. He clears his throat. "It worked before and Derek seemed to recognize Scott so it's our best chance." They ignore him so he flails a little. "Anytime now, guys."

Scott lets loose the first howl and Jackson follows, not quite harmonizing. It sends chills down Stiles' spine and he finds himself backing away. It's like creepy Peter at the school all over again. His heart beats so loud it almost drowns out the reply.

Derek's answering howl is closer than he had expected. It comes from somewhere in the woods, which is not a surprise. Stiles reaches into his backpack and turns a flashlight on, but Scott stops him.

"We'll find him," he says. "You stay in the car." He doesn't have fangs anymore, but his eyes are still glowing. Jackson still isn't verbal, which can only be a good thing as far as Stiles is concerned. The two lope off into the woods before he could log an official complaint.

"That's not fair," he speaks to the night.

***

There's only so much Stiles Stilinski can do to distract himself alone in a car at night. He texts his dad a few times, says the group project he's doing with Scott is going well. He turns on the music then closes it again, afraid he'll miss hearing something, or the battery will run down just when they badly need an exit strategy. He thinks up cool code names for himself. He bites his shirt so long, the edges get ragged, and by the time the moon—a little fatter than he'd like, but still around ten days away from becoming full—has completely risen, his shirt is soaked with his own saliva. He keeps flicking his phone on, to check the time. 24 hours wasn't that long, really. He should have negotiated. Mr. Argent was really scary, the wet-your-pants kind of scary, but he seemed to like Stiles well enough. He thinks about calling Scott's phone, but doesn't want to distract him while he's hunting. He just about whips himself into a frenzy of panic when two people step out from the trees.

He's out the car so fast, he doesn't even remember opening the door. Jackson's hundred-dollar shirt is all ripped up, and for once, his hair wasn't perfectly coiffed, and he had dirt on his cheek. Stiles finds this state so fascinating that he's almost struck dumb. "What the hell happened? Did you find him?"

"We did," Scott answers for both of them, voice a little hoarse. Jackson's face is sullen, but oddly subdued. "We tracked him to a small cave of some sort. It's about half a mile east from that big rock near the training ground we use. You know, the one with the depressions that look like a face? The cave's well-hidden, but his scent's pretty distinct, so he's probably been staying there since the accident."

"So where is he now?" Stiles hates how Scott tells stories. Usually he's desperate for an infodump while Scott gets stuck on the most inconsequential details. "Did he attack you?" Scott is just as dirty as Jackson.

"Yeah," Jackson says. "The Alpha's gone batshit. Which is perfectly fine as far as I'm concerned. Who needs the guy anyway?"

_Guess your balls grew back_ , Stiles thinks, but he's not stupid enough to say it out loud. "But he didn't turn big bad wolf, did he?" Because that would be so, so terrible. "And by the way, he's still the boss of you, whether he's feral or not."

Jackson doesn't quite hide a wince, and rubs at his neck. Scott, weirdly enough, does the same.

Stiles is not quite in Lydia Martin's league but he's still pretty good at putting two and two together. "He claimed you, didn't he?"

"Yes," Scott answers. "He didn't try to hurt us, but he definitely wanted us to submit, so we did."

"And that's as far as I'll go," Jackson practically snarls. "Field trip's over, kids. I'm out." He doesn't even wait for a reply before he gets in his car and roars away.

"So after this affirmation of your very special bonds, what did he do?" Stiles prods. They are driving home, and Stiles can barely concentrate on the road.

"Nothing. He bites me then Jackson then snorts at us and goes back to his cave."

"Derek Hale: cave man," Stiles muses out loud. "That's pretty accurate, actually. He totally rocks this whole lone wolf thing."

"Look, I can get Dr. Deaton to lend us a tranquilizer gun," Scott says. "We can go back and tranq him, and bring him to the doc."

Stiles is already shaking his head. "And then he wakes up strapped to a table? That's just courting death, Scott. Dr. Deaton doesn't have anything that can hold an Alpha against his will. We have to get him to come with us, _willingly_."

"Feel free to try, then," Scott shoots back, looking a little hurt. "Maybe if you put on a little red hoodie, he'll follow you home."

Stiles raises both eyebrows, and steals a glance at his best friend. Scott only gets this bitchy when he's totally stressed, and more than a little heartbroken. Guess that's two for two tonight. He grills Scott more about the cave's location for the rest of the ride, and drops Scott off in front of his place.

"Look, I know it could backfire," Scott tells him through the car window. "But it could also be our only chance. Better us than the hunters, right?"

"Talk to the doc," Stiles says finally. "That can be Plan C."

"What's Plan B, then?"

Stiles drives off without answering him. Scott's muscles bunch up as he contemplates running Stiles down. He could still catch the car if he left now, but just then his phone beeps. It's Allison. He smiles and relaxes automatically. And then it's too late.

Stiles is too smart to do something stupid, he later tells himself, and he contacts the doc to borrow a tranq gun and a van with a cage in it they use to transport larger animals.

***

After a quick stop at Derek's place to get a change of clothes, Stiles is all set. He stuffs the shirt and jeans into his backpack, plus a first aid kit he has started keeping in his car. He goes back to the bluffs, leaving his car there as he steps out, backpack slung over a shoulder, flashlight in hand. He walks towards the trees. He's afraid, but since when did that ever stop him?

Scott's directions aren't the easiest to follow, but he and Jackson still aren't that good at moving through the woods and Stiles finds traces of where they passed. _Of course, this would have been so much easier if you had said yes to Peter._ It's not the first time the thought has passed through Stiles' brain. And it won't be the last. But Stiles is used to operating with a handicap. He has his ADD under control for the most part. And the last few months, he's had to keep up with freaking werewolves, who all seem to have tendencies to lose their shit and get into trouble.

When did he become the responsible one?

***

He hears the boy before he sees him. Twigs and leaves crack on the forest floor under clumsy feet and a heart beats loud and strong.

It should annoy him to be disturbed again, like the two pups earlier who came to him wanting to be claimed. But as soon as the boy enters the small clearing beside his den, he breathes in that scent and recognizes it. His ears perk up. And he's on his hands and feet. And he's leaping towards the boy, toppling him and burying his face just beneath his jaw.

"What the—?" Stiles has no time to scramble away. The fall dazes him a little, and his hands come up to Derek's chest, an automatic reaction. But no amount of pushing dislodges the werewolf on top of him. "Get off!" He huffs, before eventually giving up. "I'm not one of your betas, you know," he mutters under his breath.

Derek utters a low growl, and Stiles finds himself baring his neck. "Don't you dare draw blood or I'll really get mad." He tries for defiance but ends up sounding breathless and pleading instead. He stops breathing altogether when Derek scrapes his teeth on Stiles' jugular. He tries to curse, but lets out a breathless moan instead.

The boy's scent changes as he licks his throat, so he does it again and again. It's not a familiar scent, but it intrigues him, and one hand reaches down to where it is strongest, to scratch at it a little with the tips of his claws. The boy tenses up and chokes out something between a gasp and a sob, and his scent intensifies.

Amused, he pokes at it again. And Stiles opens his eyes—he didn't even realize he had closed them—and glares up at Derek. "Now I know you're just messing with me." The scent is fading, and he presses his ear against the boy's chest, listening to a heart slow down and steady.

He gets up and walks back to the cave. But unlike the pups, the boy doesn't leave, and instead grabs his arm and pulls at it, making whining noises. He jerks it back and the boy stumbles into him. He wraps his other arm around him and pulls him down into his makeshift bed, and then rolls until he's wrapped around the boy's side.

Stiles wriggles but Derek's grip is pretty tight. He shifts until he's found a more comfortable position. They're not lying on the rock floor, but a bed of dead leaves and stripped branches is not really much of an improvement. At least he's not in danger of dying from hypothermia with Derek like a furnace beside him.

He sighs as he settles down. He's tired from the long walk, but his mind is still racing.

Derek still looks like crap, with his shirt in tatters and covered in blood. There are still pieces of glass dotting his arm, and maybe even metal. He mentally inventories the contents of the first aid kit he brought, and then thinks of how he can get the werewolf to follow him home. If he isn't willing, there'd be no way Stiles can shove him into his car and keep him there long enough to get to the Doc. He frets a little too long, and Derek starts to growl, low, almost sub-sonic.

_I am sleeping with a vibrating werewolf blanket_ , Stiles thinks, but he falls asleep before the thought blossoms into full hysteria.

***

His ringing phone wakes Stiles. He answers it even before he opens his eyes. "'Lo?"

"Stiles!" The tinny voice on the other end is Scott. "Where are you? Dr. Deaton says he'll lend us the tranq gun, but only if he comes with us. We can be ready to go in an hour, and we're taking his van."

His brain goes on over-drive. "That's great! Just give me some time to try something else first. Why don't you and the Doc go over to Derek's place. I'll follow as soon as I can. Just don't be too trigger-happy okay?"

"What exactly are you trying, Stiles?" Scott has time to ask, before Stiles realizes the place beside him is empty.

"Shit," he mutters and clicks the phone shut. He scrambles out. The sun has barely cleared the horizon. "Derek? Where are you?" He calls out, softly, then louder, until his throat gets a little raw.

Then there's a noise behind him, and he whirls around so fast, he almost trips over his own feet. It's Derek. "You!" He exclaims. "Dude, that's not cool, okay? Don't leave me out here without a word. Not that you're verbal at the moment, but that's no excuse." That's when he notices the still-bleeding rabbit in Derek's claw, and he steps back hurriedly. "What the blessed fuck is that?"

Derek holds it out to him, and he trips on a root trying to avoid it. He shakes his head from the ground. "I'm flattered, really, but there is no way I'm eating that, okay?

The werewolf inclines his head, looking puzzled at his strange reaction, especially when his stomach gurgles. But Stiles clambers to his feet and remains adamant that he doesn't want the super yummy raw meat, thanks.

So he watches from the corner of his eye until Derek is finished tearing through it. And he uses every last bit of determination to stop himself from puking at Derek's feet.

When lone wolf-slash-caveman!Derek is reduced to licking his fingers—and that's a visual Stiles really did not need at all—Stiles collects the fallen flashlight from last night and his backpack from the cave. Then he takes Derek's arm and begs him until he follows Stiles through the brush towards the river.

"You're in terrible need of a bath. There is no way I'd take you back to town looking like that. Then you'll have to deal with all those old rumors about being a serial-killer. Seriously, Derek, only you would get into something like this." He keeps up a steady patter, and pushes down the giddiness when Derek just grunts at him, but does not stop following. This could really work.

The river's steady burble rises the closer they walk. Stiles almost whoops when he sees it. The water glistens under the early sunlight, and it also puts them less than a couple of miles away from Derek's place, where he hopes that Scott and the Doc will soon be waiting.

Stiles sets down his backpack. "Okay, I know how this sounds, but you need to take your clothes off." Stiles' voice cracks, and he knows he's blushing.

Derek just looks at him uncomprehendingly, so Stiles makes himself step toward him. He has to peel off the shirt in parts where it seems fused to Derek's skin, soaked in his blood. Other parts hang in tatters. Without the shirt, Derek's injuries are more obvious. Pieces of glass still pepper his side, along with what looks to be metal fragments. Stiles winces just looking at them. He knows from the blood that there were a lot more, that Derek has already healed a substantial amount.

He gets Derek to sit on a nearby stump, and takes out the kit in his pack. "I gotta get this stuff out, so you can finish healing up. We can get the Doc to do it, but it's not like you can get infections or something. It's going to hurt, but since you had me almost cut your arm off, I'm sure you have a much higher pain threshold than us mere mortals. You're a manly man, after all." Stiles keeps a steady stream of nonsense. He's not even sure what he's saying, but Derek stays in place, while he crouches beside him, holding tweezers and a little jar.

He picks out the glass fragments, and gets Derek's right forearm cleared up, and the wounds close up immediately. "That's pretty handy," he mutters. He rubs at the skin gently with a thumb. "You are so lucky your car didn't explode or something. I sneaked a look at the report my dad brought home and there was definitely some gas leakage." He shudders as he imagines the headline: The Last Hale Dies in Fiery Crash.

Derek nudges at him with an elbow. His eyes are blue, his expression solemn. Stiles gives him a wan smile. "You're Alpha now, you know. You should take better care of yourself." Then he clams up and finishes working on Derek's arm without a word.

He stands up to stretch his legs, groaning when his joints creak. That's when he notices the streaks of blood on the back of Derek's neck. They are not quite dry yet, and he traces a finger through them until he touches the edge of Derek's scalp. Derek catches his wrist lightning-quick, and he stops breathing as a pair of red eyes drill through him. He hears the growling and thinks, for a second, that the sound is thunder coming from the sky.

"Sorry," he stutters out, wincing when the grip on his wrist tightens. "I get it! No touchee the big bad wolf's owee. Please let go now, Derek. Derek, come on," he cajoles in his best puppy-dog voice. "We'll get you clean then we'll get you fixed all right?" He grimaces at his own choice of words. "Not fixed like dogs get fixed, although the Doc might still harbor a grudge from last time. But don't worry, Scott will be there, and he'll keep an eye on you." He tugs him towards the river. "Let's take a bath, okay? Mosquitoes must be feasting on you since you're covered in blood, and I smell almost as bad from your uh, transference last night." Stiles toes off his shoes and folds the cuffs of his jeans.

The boy speaks too much. But he's not a threat, so Derek lets him go. The boy then grabs at _his_ wrist and leads him to the water. The river is not too wide, but the current is strong. They both wade in up to their knees. and the boy pushes him down and washes the dried blood off of him. His hands are steady, and so is his heartbeat. A part of Derek is afraid and hurting still, but the boy's presence calms him down. _Safe_ , the word passes through his head. He slumps a little as the boy scrubs at his back.

Walking back to the bank, however, the boy slips on a rock, lets out a yelp, and hits the water hard. The current almost sweeps him away but Derek catches at the collar of his shirt and drags him to solid ground.

Stiles coughs out a little of the water he swallowed. "That, my friend," he says between gasps, "is the worst idea ever. Next time this happens, we'll get you cleaned up at a bathroom. Much less dangerous."

Then of course, he is all wet, and did not bring anything to wear except a change of clothes for Derek. He ends up wearing them instead, because Derek refuses to strip off his soaking jeans or put on the shirt. Ok, technically, he just stares at them with bewildered eyes, but Stiles was getting really good at translating werewolf body language, or just Derek Hale's non-verbal cues.

The jeans are too big on him, but he uses his own belt and they hang onto his hips. Barely. And the black shirt is pretty comfortable. He goes out from behind the bushes he used as cover while changing. He lets out a sigh of relief when he finds Derek still there, crouching by the river.

"We gotta go, Derek," he says, grabbing him by the arm and pulling him towards the route back to his place. It's a little strange to realize how well he knows the forest. He has always been terrible at camping. And Scott's even worse at navigating, at least before he got mad tracker skills via supernatural werewolf bite. But now Stiles is completely comfortable here. Of course, it helps that he's with the scariest predator in the forest.

***

Why is the boy leading him back to the den? He growls, trying to tell him it isn't safe. But the boy pulls and pulls, and Derek is still hurting. Following him has somehow become the path of least resistance. When he sees an unfamiliar metal beast on the grounds, he pulls away and crouches down, his eyes glowing and his fangs extending. But the boy is right there in his face, touching him, and making soothing noises.

"Come on, Derek. Nobody will hurt you, I promise. The Doc's here and he'll take the pain away, okay?" Stiles repeats, and touches Derek to keep his attention, so he won't notice that Dr. Deaton is inside the van with the tranquilizer gun aimed straight at them.

Scott just watches in disbelief as Stiles leads Derek to the van. He opens the door in the back, and Derek glares at him, but without heat. He resists the urge to roll over and bare his belly to his alpha. Stiles gets in, and pulls at Derek's arm until he enters. His clothes are weird, Scott has time to notice, before Stiles grabs the door and closes it. "All set, Doc."

As soon as the van starts moving, Derek loses it, and almost rips the door open. Stiles wraps his arms around him from behind and yanks as hard as he could. "Hush, Big D. It's safe, I swear. Come on over here. Don't distract the Doc and we won't get in another accident, okay?"

The back of the van is empty except for Scott cowering in the corner. "Are you sure we shouldn't tranq him?" He asks.

_Stiles_ growls at him. Then Derek twists around drags Stiles to the floor of the van, covering him with his body. Stiles yelps in surprise and the floor isn't exactly soft, but at least Derek is staying put.

"What is he doing?" Scott looks confused, but it's not a new look on him, and Stiles rolls his eyes—not that his best friend could see them.

"He thinks we're in danger and he's protecting the weakest link, duh."

Scott bites back a reply at that and just stares in fascinated horror while Derek Badass Motherfucker Hale nuzzles just behind Stiles' ear. He tries not to breathe too deep, in case the pheromones in the air tell a different story.

The rest of the ride is awkward, to say the least.

***

Getting Derek into the clinic was a breeze compared to getting him to stay for the tests. Between the three of them, they manage it, and then Stiles has to calm him down while they wait for the results.

Stiles is sitting beside Derek against a wall, while Scott is cleaning the Doc's tools, for lack of anything to do. It always relaxes him. He also keeps an ear out for the animals next door. They are reacting to Derek's presence and are restless, but from the sound of her heartbeat, Missy, Pamela Dugan's cat, seems to be much better today. The Doc had to operate on her a couple of days ago. Scott even got to help; between Stiles and Derek's training exercises, he's been much better around the cats. They don't automatically go for his face, at least.

"Good news," Dr. Deaton says when he comes in, brandishing the x-rays. Stiles wants to stand up and grab them, but Derek is wrapped around his left side. "All his injuries seem to be healing well, including a couple of broken ribs and a cracked collarbone. You got most of the splinters out, so his arm and back are fine."

"What's the bad news?" Stiles asks, blinking double-time and gnawing on his thumbnail. He's a little groggy, and Derek-blanket was having a soporiferous effect on him. "His head still hurts; I can tell."

"Well you're right about that," Dr. Deaton admits. "The thing keeping him feral right now is most probably the piece of shrapnel in his hind brain."

Stiles just about bites his own fingers off.

***

They still end up using tranquilizers on Derek, but only because he needs to be unconscious for the actual operation to remove the piece of shrapnel. Scott assists the Doc, while Stiles runs out for some food, then runs back in, like he can't take being separated from Derek for more than a few minutes. And he takes a sharp U-turn from where that thought leads.

At least it doesn't take too long. Apparently, werewolf physiology lets the Doc go in and out of Derek's brain without too much trouble. The wound has already healed half-way, but it is still visible, so they just reopen it, pull out the piece of metal, and make sure there aren't any fragments left behind before they clean it and let it heal itself.

"What about brain damage?" Stiles blurts out after the Doc announces the test results.

"He'll probably come out of the operation still feral, and could possibly lose some memories from the trauma, but he's an alpha and as far as alphas go, if it doesn't kill them outright, they walk away unscathed."

Not for the first time, Stiles itches to ask how Dr. Deaton knows so much about werewolves. But he appreciates the man's ability to keep things to himself. And he's very, very useful when they have to get Scott or Jackson checked out for anything. "You can just bill Derek," he says with a wan smile. "I'm not sure that kind of operation's in my budget."

"Or bill Jackson," Scott adds with a small derisive snort. "I'm sure it won't even dent his credit card limit."

"Scott," Dr. Deaton chastises and Scott ducks his head. "I'll consider it a favor Derek Hale owes me. That's fair, isn't it?" He raises an eyebrow at Stiles.

Stiles nods. "I'll make sure he pays you back, Doc."

After the operation, Scott and Stiles huddle together at the clinic's waiting room. Stiles is almost vibrating in his seat. Even with werewolf powers, Derek's taking a while to wake up.

"Since when are you Derek Hale's keeper?" Scott suddenly demands, breaking the silence. "How did you get him to follow you, anyway? And why are you wearing—" He leans forward to sniff at Stiles' neck. "You're wearing _his_ clothes!" He looks so horrified that Stiles couldn't hold in a short, stuttered laugh. Scott has this tendency to follow things at his own special pace, which suits Stiles just fine, because he has his own special pace, too.

"Dude, it's no big deal!" He reassures his friend. "I got the clothes for Derek, but I got in a bit of an accident and had to wear them instead. Besides, it's a little hard to get Mr. Feral over there to understand the necessity of a shirt to cover his glorious washboard abs."

Scott lets Stiles laugh it off, but his expression says he'll sniff it out sooner or later. Stiles is banking on later.

***

He wakes up and everything smells wrong, wrong, wrong. He turns too quickly and falls off the cot. He crouches down, and explores the edges of the room with all its shiny surfaces, and leftover traces of prey. He comes to the door and reaches up to tear it from its hinges when the boy comes in.

"Derek!" He sits back as the boy pats him all over. "Still feral, huh?" The boy asks with a grin. "Doc says you'll be back to yourself in no time. Frankly, I'm not sure I'd be able to tell the difference, you know."

He licks at the boy's cheek to shut him up. Instead, the boy makes disgusted noises.

"Okay, you have got to stop with the licking, Mr. Rabbit breath. We both need actual baths in an actual bathroom. Come on, get up, I'll take you home. My dad's still on patrol so you don't have to climb my roof this time."

He doesn't know why he follows. The pain in his head is gone. But the boy… the boy smells like home.

***

_Since when are you Derek Hale's keeper?_

Scott's question comes back to him later. Stiles doesn't really think about it. He just does what he always does, and maybe it's weird, but he's used to being weird. Of course, he thinks he might have reached his limit of weird when he has to peel off Derek Hale's jeans and push him under the shower stark naked. Stiles is still wearing Derek's clothes, because there is no way he's showing skin when Derek's all buffed and muscle-y. But he shampoos Derek's hair and tries to teach him to soap himself, all the while keeping his chin jutted forward, his eyes definitely not wandering lower.

"Just don't kill me when you're back to your usual gnarly self," he mutters as he rinses the suds off. "And it's just freaky that you scare me more when you're barely-verbal-sort-of-normal Derek Hale than when you're Mr. Feral caveguy."

Afterwards, he puts Derek into an old pair of sweatpants, which he may have stolen from his dad's dresser. He leads him to the bed, says an emphatic, "Stay!" And he goes off for a quick shower. Even a river dunking doesn't quite remove the forest smell and he just feels grimy.

Derek's asleep on the bed when he gets out. He's all curled up, looking impossibly young and innocent, and Stiles takes a picture, just because. Maybe he could bargain for his life with it.

He slips out of the room and closes the door behind him. There's a phone downstairs by the kitchen wall and he picks it up and bites his lip before dialing the Argents' number.

He gets the voice mail. "Uh, just wanted to tell you to call off the cavalry, coz I got the D-man right here, and he'll be fine in two tail-shakes."

Someone picks up on the other line. "So he's still feral," Chris Argent says flatly.

Stiles almost drops the phone. "Yeah, but he's a sweetheart, I swear," he babbles in panic. "I mean, I've practically talked him to death and he hasn't threatened me even once. In fact, he's sort of nicer than the regular Derek." He feels a little peeved at the realization.

It surprises a snort of laughter from Mr. Argent. "Relax, Stilinski. Your pet wolf is safe, as long as you don't let him out of your sight. The next time I cross paths with him, the _man_ better be in charge."

Stiles hangs up and leans against the wall. He has to keep an eye on Derek at all times? Easier said than done. Well, worse comes to worse, he'll just call in sick tomorrow. But they can't exactly hole up in his bedroom the whole time. And he doesn't know how he'll explain it to his dad if he finds Derek sleeping on his bed. And that's if he doesn't get the Feral!Derek treatment.

He knocks his head against the wall a few times, before straightening up. It's almost lunch time, and Derek will get hungry soon, and there's no way he'll let the werewolf go out to hunt, in case he accidentally munches on some neighbor's pet. He opens the cupboards one by one.

***

Jackson opens the door and looms over Scott. Once upon a time, that would have totally intimidated Scott. But as werewolves, they're pretty evenly matched, though Stiles keeps telling him that wouldn't last long unless he gets serious about training.

"Stiles brought Derek in and we got him checked out at the clinic. He's still feral, but it's only a matter of time until he snaps out of it. Just thought you would want to know," Scott says.

Jackson's eyes glowed yellow for a second. "Where are they now?"

"Holed up at Stiles' place." Scott tilts his head at Jackson. The other man's heartbeat is speeding up, and he looks like he's on the brink of losing his shit. "Do you have a problem with that, Whittemore?"

"You shouldn't have left them alone with each other," Jackson grits out. "It's not safe."

Scott snorts. "Stiles has Derek wrapped around his finger. It's amazing. He's like the wolf-whisperer." Jackson doesn't seem reassured at all. "Look, you can go over there and see for yourself."

Jackson snarls at him. "Maybe I will." Then he shuts the door in his face.

Scott shrugs it off. He has more important things to worry about, like how he can sneak into the Argents' house to see Allison without her dad finding out.

***

He doesn't know what woke him: the noise of utensils and plates banging in the kitchen downstairs, Stiles singing some pop song under his breath, or his heartbeat ringing loudly in Derek's ears. He is lying on Stiles' bed, and at first, his mind is a blank. And it terrifies him.

He can feel his wolf howling under his skin, and it takes almost all his effort to pull it back. Stiles' scent is all around him, ground in the sheets and pillows. He takes a deep breath and focuses on the steady beat of Stiles' heart. The beat that is growing louder and louder as Stiles walks up the stairs.

"Derek?" Stiles swings the door open and pops his head in. "Lunch is ready. Are you awake?" He steps toward the bed and Derek is suddenly scrambling from it, falling gracelessly on the floor on the far side of the doorway.

Stiles crosses his arms. "You know what, I'm not sure if I should be insulted or flattered, scaring Mr. Big Bad double-you."

Derek opens his mouth to ask what happened, but instead his fangs lengthen and he lets out a warning snarl.

Stiles just scratches his head. "I thought getting the shrapnel out would make you better, not worse. Think we could get our money back from the Doc?"

That's when it all returns: the accident, holing up in the cave, and being cajoled out by the boy in front of him, who kept taking care of him. Derek flushes in sheer embarrassment, something he had not done in _years_.

He lets Stiles come close enough to touch. The boy holds out a hand like he's trying to calm some animal, and for a second, Derek thinks of biting it just to see his reaction. Then he thinks of saying something, of telling Stiles that he was himself again, but the words wouldn't come. Instead, the wolf within him ripples under his skin. And isn't it a laugh? He's not feral anymore, and this is the closest he's come to losing control. He shakes his head, trying to center himself. And that's when Stiles reaches him and pets his head.

"Hush, Derek. Don't be scared. I won't _bite_." Stiles smirks but his voice was calm and low. "Your brain's still healing, probably. And I made fish tacos which is totally brain food. Raw rabbit was ages ago so I'm sure you're starving by now."

Derek's stomach gurgles, and Stiles laughs. "I'll take that as a yes."

Derek allows himself to be led downstairs to the kitchen. It bothers him, though, because it's just like this morning. When they get in sight of the front door, he almost rips his hand away and runs, but it's as if Stiles has heard him and his grip tightens.

"My dad's going to be back around four. If you're okay by then, I can drive you home, or you could just stay here. We just have to keep you out of sight," Stiles is mostly muttering to himself.

The tacos taste pretty good. Most importantly, Stiles made plenty of them. Derek wolfs them down with his clawed fingers. And yes, Stiles makes puns in his head while he watches in fascination. Derek tilts his head up and catches him looking, and Stiles' whole face and neck turns red.

"Good, huh? Yeah my dad loves them, too. You know, I always wondered what you ate out there. I mean, aside from forest creatures, anyway. I'm pretty sure Pizza Hut doesn't deliver to your house."

Derek almost answers that he lives off canned goods and a portable burner. Instead he bites his lip. All the way through. With his fangs.

"Shit, Derek! What the heck?" Stiles jumps up and gets some napkins from a drawer. And he bends down and holds them to Derek's bleeding lower lip. "In case it has escaped your notice, Mr. Hale, those teeth of yours are dangerous weapons," he mutters.

It only takes a moment for the wound to close. And then Stiles inhales sharply, realizing how close he's gotten to Derek's face. The werewolf grabs his hand holding the bloody tissue. Stiles pulls away instinctively and falls on his ass.

Then Derek crawls on top of him and nuzzles at his neck. His wolf is reveling at the smell, and at the sounds the boy is making.

It's not like the movies. Being born as what he is, the wolf is in Derek and Derek is in the wolf and they are one integrated being. Usually.

It's not just the accident. Six years ago, Derek was cracked open, ripped to pieces when his family was burned to death. Then Laura dies, and it turns out to be Uncle Peter. The only reason he's survived the loss is that he's Alpha now, and his Pack needs him. They just don't know how much he needs them in return: Jackson and his mix of arrogance and insecurity, Scott's stupidity and heart, and even Allison, with her strength of will and her formidable skills, has found a place within the Pack.

But Stiles… He sometimes feels like the linchpin that holds them all together. He's fierce and loyal to a fault. Derek has never been so glad of that. But he's so young… He wants to bind Stiles to the Pack, and to himself even tighter. He wants to give him the Bite.

"Touchy-feely Derek is still a novelty, yes." Stiles brings him out of his thoughts. "But this isn't exactly the most comfortable place we could do this. Not that I'm implying we should take it somewhere else, because you know, that's a pretty smooth line and I'm not known for being smooth. Oh god, what was I talking about?" Stiles bangs his head against the floor, but Derek gets up on all fours and growls at him in warning.

Then the doorbell rings. Derek's head whips around. He recognizes the heartbeat on the other side and relaxes a little. But Stiles wriggles free while he's distracted and pushes him to the kitchen. "Stay here and don't growl, okay?" He says before he goes to open the door.

Jackson's standing on his front step. As soon as the door swings wide enough, his nostrils flare, and he takes a step forward. "God, Stilinski! You smell like you bathed in eau de Derek."

Stiles flushes, moving away and allowing Jackson the space to enter the house. "He's feral, okay," he says defensively. "I know he probably scent-marked you too."

"Yeah, but that's different."

Stiles throws up his arms. "Why?"

Jackson moves a little too close, crowding him against the wall. "Because I'm his, and you're—"

"And I'm not?" Stiles' voice cracks a little. "I know you don't think I'm worthy to be in your Pack, Jackson, but—" The growl interrupts them. Stiles has time to curse under his breath before Derek's _there_ and he's growing fur on his arms and back alarmingly fast.

The tide of fear consumes Jackson, and the instinctive need to submit. He knows better than to run, even though his muscles practically scream at him to move. Instead, he lets Derek slam him onto the floor and though he holds onto the other man's furred arms, he does not fight back as Derek roars into his face, claws sinking deep into his shoulders.

Stiles is not one to stand still; he takes off to the kitchen and comes back with a pitcher of water, and he pours it over the two werewolves on his living room floor.

Derek rears back, and shifts to more or less human, while Jackson lay there, stunned and bleeding.

"Just go, Jackson," Stiles whispers tiredly. "He's not well yet, so I really can't deal with you right now."

Jackson crawls over to a very still Derek, whimpering. Stiles turns away as Derek grabs Jackson's neck and shakes it a little then touches him forehead to forehead. Then Jackson gets up and leaves, like nothing happened. He doesn't bother to say goodbye to Stiles.

As soon as the front door closes, Derek lumbers forward on all fours—which is not a good sign—and rubs his head on Stiles' leg. A bit of affection and a bit of apology, Stiles guesses.

"You're almost out of free passes, Hale," Stiles mutters, but he cards his fingers through Derek's hair, and helps him to stand. "Let's get you up to my room, okay? No more excitement. We'll get a nice boring movie for you to watch. Then I'll have to mop this up before dad comes home. You'll have to apologize to Jackson when you're you again."

Derek seems to disagree by the tone of his whining.

"I know you're his Alpha and that's a big thing, but he's still just a kid, Derek. He doesn't need you beating up on him all the time. He's insecure enough as it is." Stiles rolls his eyes and runs a hand through his own hair. "I can't believe I'm defending Jackson Whittemore of all people. I think we all need amnesia pills after this whole thing blows over."

Derek allows himself to be herded into Stiles' room. The boy sets up the laptop at the foot of the bed ("Don't kick it or you'll have to get me a new one!") and cues up some film, _Ironman_ from the looks of it, then warns him sternly to stay before he goes downstairs for clean up.

He didn't mean to lose control like that, but he didn't regret it. Jackson's getting too uppity. He's so new he still can't change at will, except when Scott or Derek's there to help him along. He needs to learn _now_ not to challenge Derek.

Stiles shouldn't challenge him either, but there's no stopping that mouth, and Derek finds he doesn't mind it, that he sometimes craves it. He shakes his head and burrows deep under the covers with the boy's scent all over him. Later, Stiles joins him and they spend a quiet afternoon together watching movies as it grew increasingly dark, so close they're almost on top of each other.

Stiles falls asleep early, snoring a little. Derek waits a full ten minutes before disentangling himself and closing the laptop, and moving it back to the desk. Then he looks through the pile of freshly laundered clothing for his things and changes into them. They're the shirt and jeans that Stiles wore after falling in the river. But the boy's scent has been erased.

Then he stepped to the window, combing the street outside for nosy neighbors or passing cars.

"Bad puppy," Stiles suddenly speaks and Derek jumps. He didn't even notice the change in Stiles' heartbeat. Stiles is still lying in the same place, but Derek could see his half-open eyes gleaming in the moonlight.

Derek clears his throat a little, his hand twitching as his mind races for something to say.

Stiles sits up. "I knew you were faking a long time ago, you big faker."

"How?" Derek asked hoarsely.

The boy shrugs. "I just do. Mr. Argent is probably patrolling the streets. I don't want him to come across you in the dark. Stay here for the night, please?" He says, patting the space beside him.

"You have school tomorrow," Derek says. He cocks his ear. "And your dad's home."

Stiles rolls his eyes. "I'm officially giving you permission to disappear at dawn, Mr. Hale. Don't worry. I'll still respect you in the morning." He leers at him exaggeratedly, which makes Derek smile for a split-second. ( _Victory!_ Thinks Stiles.)

He moves toward the bed, back in his still-warm spot. For a second, they touch and freeze and Derek smells the anxiety in the air. Then Stiles deliberately wraps an arm around Derek's shoulder. Derek makes a small sound and burrows close, wrapping his own arms around the boy's waist.

"Hush," Stiles says, while rubbing his back. "You really want to know how I knew you were you again?"

Derek nods, unable to trust his voice yet.

"Because you stopped licking me," Stiles whispers fondly. "Big faker."

Derek huffs a laugh and licks the boy's neck just to be contrary.

It makes Stiles squeak. And the wolf inside Derek rumbles contentedly as he falls asleep with his mate in his arms.

***

Jackson steps out of the shower, a towel wrapped around his waist. He almost drops it when a hand slams him against the wall and holds him there. It's Derek. His eyes are green and his nails are human length. But his glare is as intense as ever, and Jackson keeps still.

"I don't want you to mess around with Stiles, do you understand?" He says each word deliberately, holding Jackson's gaze. "Did you think no one would notice that you want him? You stink of lust whenever he's around."

Jackson swallows with difficulty. Derek lets him go and turns toward the open window when Jackson finds his voice. "You got it wrong. He's not the one I want."

Derek slowly turns back to him and flares his nose. Jackson's heart drowns out all other noises. And Derek watches a droplet of water follow the path down the boy's stomach. He takes a deliberate step forward, and another. And Jackson's breath catches in his throat.

Then Derek is cupping his face with one hand, and rubbing a rough cheek against his temple. "And you'll always have me," Derek promises. He licks at the mingled water and sweat just behind Jackson's ear, feeling the boy shudder in his arms. "Always."

He turns to leave again and he's crouched on the window sill when Jackson asks, "And Stiles?"

Derek flashes red eyes at him. "Stiles is _mine._ "

"The two of you didn't—" Jackson starts to ask then stutters awkwardly.

Derek's face tightens. "Not yet. He's Pack, Jackson. We keep him safe."

***

He watches lacrosse practice that afternoon, watches while another player slams into Stiles and then Jackson holds out a hand and helps the other boy up then slapping his shoulder once. The two seem to have reached an unspoken understanding, which bewilders and pleases Scott in equal measure.

His wolf lets out a satisfied murmur, and Derek agrees. All is well in his Pack. And as for Stiles, he thinks, ears tuning into the boy's slightly elevated heartbeat. It's only a matter of time.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry for the surprise pairing. It snuck up on me, too. I am not sure if I will write a sequel to this. Ideas, anyone? Feel free to write smut for this, because I can imagine it, but the words won’t come when I try to write it down. Maybe because I still feel like Derek considers them all too young, too vulnerable. So if he does woo Stiles and I do write about it, it’ll be a slow, slow romance.


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